I have gone deforming Hardly born, yet mourning The affluent rose, or obscene snow or cashmire eloquent finger tips Tiny things, fleshy, grasping blindly into this bright world. But I have gone deforming from memories of who you could have been and you cacooned in memory, like clay or golden seams who you were, could have been, the people of my dreams? Your candle bright and luminous, birthdays that never were lights the door, the window pane to thoughts of those who came before But moon, opaque, a phantom, remains unchanged, unmoved and I the half that lived long past wonders after you. Brother.